By Brian Reade

Fusing the blind ardour of a lifelong supporter with the chilly eye of an award-winning journalist, this can be an up-close and private view of the total glossy period of Britain's such a lot winning soccer membership. From their first ever FA Cup win in 1965 to the Champions League defeat in Athens in 2007, this evaluation takes at the awesome tales at the back of the forty eight trophies Liverpool has gained. Highlighting the memorable nights that propelled the membership to 5 ecu Cups, 3 UEFA Cups, 12 titles, and numerous household cup triumphs, this account additionally discusses their sour mess ups, the tragic mess ups in Sheffield and Brussels, and the barren years of the overdue 60s and the 90s.

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Fearing the joshing will stop, I tap-dance through the silence like a rhino in Air-Wear. ’ He tugs on the shorts, stands bolt upright, hands, hips and eyes snapping into Cagney mode, the wrinkles on his forehead contorting into a map of the Alps. ‘This De La Salle, son. ’ There is no laugh, just a brisk turn and a march towards a big wicker hamper from which he grabs a pair of red socks, then keeps on walking. The shiver turns to sweat as an abyss slides into view below my three-inch platform heels.

I should be at school, battling to stay awake through double economics. Instead I’m joshing away with Bill Shankly at Melwood, like a groom and his best man preparing to rip up the town on a stag night. Goolies on parade and everything. I’ve been in his company less than five minutes and he’s already told me a story nobody has ever heard before. Granted, in the league table of Shankly anecdotes it’s six points behind Stenhousemuir. But it’s mine and mine alone to drop casually into conversations for eternity.

Here was the harrowing pain football could inflict, as others celebrated wildly over the same set of circumstances that were leaving you on the floor. That feeling of total isolation, despite knowing there were countless thousands of your brethren equally bereft. The sense that this was a tragedy unique to you, which would never be overcome so long as there were record books around to remind you of the mental wound. But in March 1965 as Liverpool closed in on winning the FA Cup for the first time in history, Mother Football had yet to wound me.

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